


Walkabout

by Shoulder_Devil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Elias is a creepy bastard, Gen, Kidnapping, Panic Attacks, paranoid Archivist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:44:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil
Summary: The Archivist is having a rough day and it keeps. Getting. Worse.





	Walkabout

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between Uncanny Valley and Twice as Bright.
> 
> Thanks to erikaangelchild for being the beta for this behemoth!

Jon woke with a start. Tinny music filled his ears causing his heart to race and breath catch in his throat. He sat bolt upright as he began to cast about for the source of the noise _.  The circus!  Please no, not yet. I still have so little information on how to fight it, if I can even fight it.  Georgie and I have to get out of here!_

His eyes swept across the room finally landing on the side table where his phone lay. Awareness slowly won out over adrenaline fueled panic and his brain connected the music to his phone’s alarm.  It wasn’t even circus music but some orchestration unfortunately heavy in the brass section.  A sound file that had come preloaded on the burner phone he had selected nearly at random.

Jon took a steadying breath, and reached a hand out to silence the device.  He was not surprised at the tremor in his hands as he fumbled with the still unfamiliar buttons.  Hypervigilance had its consequences, especially when maintained for this long.   Nearly dropping the blasted thing, he decided to change the ringtone later, once his nerves, and hands, had settled.  

He collapsed back on the bed, stared at the ceiling and huffed out a quiet laugh.  Jonathan Sims, former Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, survivor of worm attacks, hide and seek with the not-them, and a childhood encounter with a book from Leitner’s collection – sent to a near panic over a goddamn cell phone.

Leitner.

An image of the bloodied and broken man sprawled out on the floor of what was once Jonathan’s office came unbidden to his mind.  Jon screwed his eyes shut and rolled over onto his side, curling into a ball.  He drew a pillow over his head. He lay there and considered screaming for a moment before rejecting the notion.  Sure, it might give him a bit of catharsis, but it would also summon Georgie, and she was worried enough about him as it is.  Her concern would just add to his guilt and the near physical presence of unsaid words.  

No, best to just wait it out.  

Jon’s heart rate had barely begun to slow from his sudden awakening and already he could feel it beating more incessantly within his chest.  His breath came in quick, sharp bursts as panic threatened to drown him.  The tighter he closed his eyes the more Leitner’s bloodied corpse seemed to solidify itself in is mind’s eye.   

Jon tried to focus on taking deep, even breaths, telling himself that it wasn’t his fault, even though every fiber of his being _knew_ it was.  Leitner hadn’t wanted to meet in the archive. He had practically begged – no, he had literally begged - to go somewhere else to talk.  But no, Jon needed his _statement_ and statements belonged in the archive.  

If he had just let Leitner lead him to one of his safe houses none of this would be happening.  

If he hadn’t insisted on taking a _fucking smoke break_ Leitner would be alive and could help stop this Unknowing or at the very least tell Jon what the fuck it even is.

If he hadn’t decided to solve his problems with a goddamned axe…

His breathing became more ragged as sobs threatened to overtake him.  Jon felt tears burning in the corners of his eyes, and teetering on the edge of a pit of guilt, shame, and grief, the temptation was strong to indulge it.  To let go and have his self-loathing carry him away for a time.  Spiral into his darkest thoughts and wallow in them.

 _No! No, no, no! I will not be reduced to this state! There is work to be done and I can’t do it folding in on myself like this. Trying to collapse into a black hole fueled by the weight of my many,_ many _wrongs is not helpful. Stop this nonsense at once!_

“It’s not nonsense, it’s a panic attack.” He choked out, “It’s not your first, and the way things are going, it won’t be your last. Breathe.”

He found his hands had balled themselves into fists so tight his fingernails threatened to cut into his palms.  With a concerted effort he forced his hands open, then his eyes.  Tears still flowed from them, but less than before.  He stared off into the middle distance and renewed his focus on controlling his breathing, pushing all other thoughts from his mind.

Admitting aloud and acknowledging the panic attack for what it was, helped him focus.  It allowed him to separate himself from the intrusive thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him.  

“The archives were affecting your mind, are probably _still_ affecting your mind.  Of course, you would want to bring him there.” He took in a deep breath, held it for a couple of heartbeats, and slowly exhaled.

“If you- if I hadn’t stepped out when I did it is very likely I would also be dead. It’s possible that they wouldn’t have attacked the two of us together but- No, stop it.  Don’t – just focus on breathing now, set all the ‘what ifs’ aside.”

Jurgen Leitner was dead and though Jonathan Sims may never be able to fully divest himself of responsibility, he could at least acknowledge that he wasn’t the one to kill Leitner. Jon may have not made the best choices in his life, especially recently, but he wasn’t a murderer.

Several minutes later Jon wasn’t exactly relaxed, but was no longer trying to squeeze himself into a quantum singularity of shame.  At some point The Admiral had joined him on the bed. He lay near Jon’s head, close enough to be almost touching but pointedly ignoring him in the way only a cat can.  He reached out a hand to scratch Georgie’s fluffy, ginger cat. The Admiral readjusted himself slightly and began to purr while pointedly refusing to acknowledge his new flat mate in any other way.  

Jon stayed like that for a while. Laying on the bed, idly scratching a cat, and doing his level best not to let his drifting thoughts land on any one thing for too long.  

The phone pulled him from his reverie. Apparently, he’d activated the snooze function rather than turning the alarm off properly. Something odd kicked up in the back of his head but he brushed it away as he rolled over to reach for the phone. The Admiral made a noise of displeasure at the disturbance and leapt off the bed.  

He grabbed the phone in his left hand and pushed up with his right to lever himself into a sitting position against the wall. The front screen wasn’t lit up, which was odd, but he was still getting used to the burner’s setup. He wished he could use his actual phone but that was too dangerous. No, his phone was in its disparate parts in a plastic bag among the small pile of possessions that constituted the entirety of his belongings.

His hand fumbled again on the nightstand for his glasses.  “Where the hell is the off button for the damn alarm.”

Glasses on.  

Screen activated.

No active alarms.

“Oh no,” Jon breathed.

After having a proper listen Jon figured it was coming from somewhere outside and not within the room as he had originally feared. Problem is, it was getting louder.

Jon hauled himself out of bed and hurried across to Georgie’s room. He knocked on the door.  

“Georgie. Georgie, are you awake?”

“Hmmm, whutdoyou want?”

“Georgie, do you hear that?”

“Hear what? The sound of being woken from my princess-like slumber by a bumbling oaf smacking on my door? Yeah, I can hear that.” Georgie had never been a morning person. The music was loud enough though that, even in her muddled state, she should be able to hear it.  

“The Admiral probably knocked something over.”

“No, it’s not- “  

“Jon, it’s my day off. Give him some food and he’ll calm down. He doesn’t want to wait around for me to get up to feed him since you’ve been awake to do it so early lately. You spoil him and now he’s become accustomed. You created this monster now you have to deal with it.”

The last words hit him like a slap to the face. _You created this monster…_

A screech from the steam organ pulled him out of his thoughts. It didn’t seem to be getting louder anymore but it wasn’t going away. And Georgie didn’t seem to be able to hear it.

“Are you _sure_ you didn’t hear anything?”

“It was probably a spoiled ball of fluff voicing his displeasure at not being fed. Like I said, it’s my day off. So, if there’s nothing else world ending, I’m going to roll over and go back to sleep.”

She couldn’t hear it. The music was for him. “I… No, go back to sleep. I’ll um… I’ll take care of the cat.”

There was the sound of bedclothes being rearranged followed by a muffled thanks coming out from under least two pillows and a duvet from the other side of the door.

Doing his best to remain unseen, Jon peeked out of every window he could in the flat but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No circus, no street performers, no creepy mannequins, no off-white delivery vans, he even checked reflections for odd distortions on the off chance Michael was having a laugh at his expense. Nothing.  

Jon took a seat at the kitchen table. He put his head in his hands and tried to think of what to do. If he stayed, he would put Georgie in danger. He hoped she hadn’t been marked by his continued presence.  

Oh god, what if doing his recordings here have designated this as some kind of Archival Outpost belonging to the Beholding? Had he unwittingly drawn her into this as an assistant archivist? She hadn’t done any research or recording herself, but he had been using her equipment.  

 _No, that’s absurd._ Jon still couldn’t wrap his head around what was going on with the various powers and their domains but surely…

She _does_ research and record incidents of the supernatural...

Even if that was the case _(please, please, please, no)_ that is a problem for another time. There was an immediate threat hovering outside and _that_ was what needed to be dealt with.  

The longer the music played the more his hair stood on end.  The urge to bolt built up inside him, a winding tension, not entirely dissimilar to before. Only this wasn’t a crushing need to curl up and hide from the world, this was an active tension, one that begged to be released in its full fight or flight glory.

To vent some of that energy, Jon bounced his left leg rapidly up and down.

“Shit!” he cursed under his breath, “shit, shit, shit!”

His leg was bouncing in time with the music. When he realized that he made the conscious decision to stop. Though as soon as he wasn’t  focused on stilling the rogue limb, it started back up again.  Jon relented and let it bounce.

_Is it the music or my own paranoia affecting me? Both?  Probably. No real way to tell I suppose._

_Me being here puts Georgie in danger. There are_ things _out there and they know where I am.  At first it was just the statements, but now the circus too. Michael mentioned my being protected in the Archives. What else can find me now that I’ve left that “protection”?_

The Admiral started to thread his way back and forth between Jon’s legs chirping for attention. Supernatural steam organ either unheard to or simply utterly unimpressive to feline sensibilities. A human was in the kitchen when his bowl was empty. This was not an injustice The Admiral will tolerate.

Jon sighed and got up to feed the cat as much to satisfy his body’s urge to just _move,_ as anything else. He couldn’t tell if it was some kind of outside force compelling him, or if it was his own instincts. Either way, rash decisions hadn’t served him well recently.  

“Busywork, that should do the trick. At least until I can get my head on a bit straighter.”

The Admiral looked up from his bowl, briefly regarding the haggard man fidgeting in the kitchen before resuming his morning meal, choosing not to comment.

Partway through scrubbing the stove, he noticed the music had begun to fade. It was not gone yet, but it seemed to be receding. Checking the time, it seemed like the music has been playing for about a half hour. He was still keyed up but no longer in the mood to be running laps around London.

He couldn’t stay here. He shouldn’t have come in the first place. It was selfish, he was putting people in danger, and it was time to go. At the very least, he shouldn’t be at the flat when Georgie was home. She’d been more than generous and that shouldn’t be the thing that got her killed.

The music had stopped.

He scratched out a note for Georgie and left.

 

_________

 

Basira had commented on how bad the two of them were at “spy stuff”. She wasn’t wrong but he was trying. At least it was cold enough outside that Jon could flip up his collar without looking overly suspicious. He cursed himself for not grabbing one of Georgie’s scarves but he didn’t want to go back at this point. It didn’t really matter anyway, she tended toward colors that would have drawn more attention than hiding more of his face was worth.

Morning commute was in full swing. Normally, so many people would have put him off going out. He had hoped the crowd would help him blend, so far it seemed to be working. No destination in mind, mostly he mostly followed along with the flow of foot traffic but made the occasional turns here and there.  

He was doing his best to scan the crowd around him to see if anyone was following along with his zigzag nonsense. So far, he hadn’t spotted anyone but it was hard to be sure. He suppressed the urge to crane his head around and look behind him multiple times. He tried to use his peripheral vision and any reflective surfaces to his advantage.  

The sidewalks were full of Londoners walking with purpose. Occasionally Jon spotted tourists who stopped seemingly at random to look in shop windows or take pictures of buildings. Usually, he found them annoying, disturbing the flow of traffic. But today he saw them with a pang of jealousy. He was not sure he’d ever been that carefree, but he had looked at the world with wonder at one time in his life. Those days were gone. He missed them.  

He was watching a little girl feeding pigeons when a rather large man caught his eye. No, not one man, but two.

He nearly ran face first into a light pole in shock.

Jon had never seen Breekon and Hope in person before and he was desperately hoping it wasn’t actually them. Two large delivery men, just like you’d expect, walking slowly but with purpose. There are plenty of delivery services around London and they could easily belong to one of those. They didn’t though.  _That isn’t the kind of day I’m having. That isn’t the kind of life I’m living._   

The two large men were coming from the opposite way, towards Jon on the sidewalk. He could tell they were looking for something, but they hadn’t spotted it- spotted him yet. If he turned around and headed back the way he came, Jon was certain the movement would attract their attention despite the crowd. There weren’t any cross streets or alleyways in the intervening distance, so no hope of ducking out of sight that way.  

Pedestrian traffic may have been thinning out as 9am approached but the road was still quite busy. Jon weighed the risk of getting knocked down by a taxi if he made a mad dash across the road. He decided that ending up in hospital would be likely to land him in jail, or far worse, if he didn’t outright die.

Taking a breath and swallowing down the heart that threatened to beat out of his throat, Jon stayed the course and continued down the sidewalk. He did his best to keep a casual appearance, despite his near miss with the lamppost. He hoped he was presenting the image of an irritated man, trying to get to work on time rather than a terrified Archivist on the run dodging a pair of unholy delivery men.  

Head slightly down, eyes forward, Jon quickened his pace trying to thread as close to the edge of the road as possible. If this didn’t work he could still make a dash into the street. Maybe getting hit by a taxi wouldn’t be so bad, he might even make it unscathed.

Fifty meters, still no visible reaction from the two men

Twenty meters.  

Fifteen meters.  

The need to bolt like a startled rabbit was nearly unbearable

Ten meters.

_Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact._

Five.

And he’s past. A wave of relief hit and it was almost enough for his knees to give way but he presses on. Jon turned the first corner he came to and risked a glance behind him as he did. The two hulking men had not altered their course.  

All the adrenaline flooding Jon’s body had him shaking ever so slightly and he knew the crash was coming. It didn’t help that he had skipped breakfast. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself. He could have at least grabbed one of the bars Georgie was so fond of.  

He walked for a couple blocks but the crash was coming on sooner than Jon had anticipated, and harder. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up on the floor, trampled under a busy London.

Jon leaned up against the edge of a building and let his legs slowly fold under him. He just needed to catch his breath a bit and then he could move on. Somewhere with enough people he could blend with the crowd but not so many he couldn’t keep track of it. Maybe go to a museum?  It was a better option than riding the tube around all day.

He ended up seated like that for a good ten to fifteen minutes He must have looked to be in quite the state as a few well-meaning passersby tossed coins in his direction. Jon felt a pang of shame in his chest but he was too wrung out to protest. The growl in his stomach was as insistent as The Admiral scratching at his leg, wanting to be fed. He collected the donations and hauled himself to his feet to be on his way.

Ten steps into his journey a strong hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an alley. Knocked off balance in the initial assault, Jon tried to pull away but only managed to bounce himself off a brick wall. Stumbling deeper into the alley, he caught a glimpse of a suit jacket. In that split second, he remembered Breekon and Hope were occasionally accompanied by a third person. What had Daisy called him? Tom? Or was it John? Didn’t matter, he’s here now that damned van and its cockney inhabitants can’t be far off.

The hand let go of Jon’s arm only to wrap around his chest, pulling him backward against his attacker, pinning one of his arms to his side. Before he could collect his wits enough to yell for help, a cold, gloved hand clamped over his mouth. He struggled against the hands dragging him backwards but he couldn't seem to get his feet under him to get purchase or leverage.

A strong solvent smell radiated from the hand on his face and everything started to feel a bit… funny. Dizzy, like he was stepping outside himself. His whole body was a glove that he was slowly pulling out of, leaving behind the numb sensation of sleeping limbs.  He drew in a breath to try and scream anyway but the sharp chemical scent clawed at his throat sending him into a coughing fit. Jon brought his free arm up to pry the hand from his face but the grip was too strong for his clumsy fingers and rapidly weakening limbs.  

A soft breath in his ear made a shushing noise. A cold spike of fear shot through his gut at the noise and he renewed his struggles.

Try as he might, he still couldn’t get his stubborn legs fully under him, his body had gotten so slow to respond to commands. He resorted to wild kicks and throwing his meager weight around as much as possible to try and unbalance his attacker. If he could get them to both to fall over, maybe, just maybe the man behind him would be stunned and loosen his grip enough for Jon roll towards the mouth of the alley where someone might notice the commotion.

As if in response to that thought, a kick caught Jon across the back of the legs, dropping him to his knees. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision, his whole body thrummed with sleep tingles, and the world began to spin lazily. Weak as he was, he continued to struggle, fighting for every last shred of consciousness, refusing to give up.

The voice in his ear again soft, low, steady, but unsettlingly familiar, “Stop fighting me Jon, this is for your own good.”

He tried pulling away one more time but it was no good. His strength was gone and he began to slump backward in the firm grip of the man restraining him. The last thing his brain managed to process before slipping totally into darkness was a very confused, _What-? Elias?_

 

_________

 

Returning to consciousness was not a straightforward journey for Jon, he bobbed near the surface of awareness, brushing against it, but couldn’t quite seem to break through. A slow drip of water echoed in what sounded to be a large space from very far away before retreating back into nothingness. He thought he may have opened his eyes at one point. There was dim light and soft shapes that stubbornly refused to focus but they didn’t last long. Trying to concentrate was exhausting, his meager grip on reality slipped and all was again darkness.  

He might have been laying down but couldn’t quite tell in which direction “up” is hiding. Maybe there was movement from somewhere around him but that could be his own breathing. His thoughts were beginning to come into focus. Though they were disorganized as the archive he managed.

 _Used to manage._ The thought came stumbling in a bit after the last. Jon chose to take comfort that he was able to correct an error in his own thinking before fading out again.

Moving any part of his body seemed like more effort than he could bear at the moment. Even the thought of opening his eyes seemed a herculean task. He settled on passive observation to gather information. The dripping sound was back. _So, not deaf. Put that in the column labeled “good news”,_ he remarked dryly to himself. _Ah, sarcasm, there’s another for column A._

The dripping wasn’t loud or overly frequent but it was steady. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t wet, more good news. The air smelled damp to a degree that lined up with the water sound. It took effort but his thoughts were beginning to coalesce in a more orderly fashion. The desire to slip back into unawareness beckoned to Jon but he pushed past it.  

_Okay, so musty smell and dripping water. Sewer? No, a sewer would smell worse. Basement? Maybe. Oh Christ! Please not the tunnels! Have I been brought back so the Not-Them could finish the job?_

The thought prompted a sharp gasp of air which wheeled his attention back to his own body.  

His sense of awareness in space was much less confused than earlier. Jon was not lying down as he initially thought. He was seated, well slumped, in a high backed wooden chair. His head lolled back and to the left, nestled between the chair back and his shoulder. His arms rested on those of the chair, and his legs were planted on the floor roughly shoulder width apart. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions but the act of actually moving to do something about it still seemed still beyond his grasp.  

He thought about moving without actually succeeding in doing so for some time. He tried to focus on twitching his hand or stretching out his leg but his mind drifted back toward something akin to sleep before his muscles would obey. Eventually, he managed to crack open his eyes. The light was diffuse and the world was out of focus, but in a familiar way. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Unfortunate but not incapacitating. His eyesight wasn’t that bad compared to some, just enough to give the world a soft focus like what they used in the old Star Trek reruns he saw as a child. After a few blinks he was able to focus on what appeared to be the ceiling of a cellar of some kind.

His face and mouth itched enough that the urge to scratch finally overrode the weight of inertia he seemed to be under. His hand twitched in the direction of his face but never reached its destination. Not for lack of trying though. His wrist was secured firmly to the chair. Both were. Legs too he discovered a moment later. _Damn._

Jon struggled to lift his head and get a better look at his situation. The blood that had collected in the back of his skull drained readily as gravity took over. The world tilted making him lightheaded and a bit nauseous. The sensation reminded him exactly why he hadn’t touched tequila since university. Facing forward, he focused on what appeared to be a door and took several steadying breaths while he waited for the room to cease its swaying.  

Stomach and brain mostly settled, Jon took stock of the room, at least what he could see from his vantage point. The area in front of him was about three meters across. The wall was old brick but to Jon’s relief, they were red and not the black brick that lined the tunnels under the Institute. A rough hewn door was placed centrally in the wall. Light filtered in from somewhere above and behind him. He had no way of knowing how far the room extended behind him but if he had to guess, he was in what was once a coal storage room similar to the one in his grandmother’s basement.

Looking down at himself in the low light he saw his arms and legs secured to those of the chair by means of silver duct tape. At some point while he was out his coat had been removed, but it was not so cold for that to be a problem. Jon pulled at his bonds to no avail. He was likely to have bruises show up in a couple of days if he wasn’t careful.

_If I live that long._

A rue laugh huffed out of him. The skin around his mouth still itched and burned a bit but he wasn’t gagged. The thought of yelling for help occurred to him. Judging from how thick the walls appeared and the lack of outside noises filtering down from above, it was unlikely that anyone but his captor would hear his cries for help.

“If screaming could help me, I doubt I would be capable of doing it at present.” The words came out dry, in a way that pricked at the back of his throat uncomfortably. His attempt at clearing it sent him into an outright coughing fit. A wave of dizziness passed over him as he coughed, but nothing as severe as earlier. When it cleared, he still felt a bit off but less akin to his idiot uni binge drinking, and more like two ciders on an empty stomach.  Whatever it was seemed to be clearing out of his system at a decent pace.

_Small favors, I suppose._

Jon swallowed carefully and sighed, “Well I’m not just going to sit here and wait for death or…” Sighing again he set about pulling free one of his hands. The left one seemed to have a bit more give. Working methodically, he felt he was making some minor progress at least. The tape around his wrist seemed to be stretching a little.

 _Maybe, just maybe…_ Tucking his thumb as much as he could Jon winced as he did his best to squeeze his hand from its restraint.  

The sound of someone descending creaking stairs stopped him cold.

Jon gave another frantic tug and let out a pained hiss of breath when the tape refused to give way. It was no good, with enough time he might have been able to work free one of his hands but he no longer had that time. The footsteps finished their decent and the crisp sound of hard soled shoes rang across the stone floor as they approached the door.  

Bottling down on the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Jon closed his eyes and resumed the closest thing he could recall to the position from which he had awoken. Doing his best to even out his breathing, he waited. There was a click from behind the door and through closed eyes, he could tell a light had been switched on.  

More sounds, a ring of keys, the turning of a lock, a door opening Whoever it was stepped through and shut the door behind them but did not seem to lock it.  Jon couldn’t remember if there had been a lock on this side of the door, he hadn’t thought to check.  

A disappointed sigh came from the air in front of him. “I know you’re awake, Jon. You can stop this play acting.”

He considered continuing to feign unconsciousness simply to spite the man whose voice he identified as belonging to his former boss. Ultimately, Jon decided against provoking a suspected murderer. There didn’t seem to be an obvious threat in the statement but his voice was firm and discouraged argument.

Cracking open his eyes, Elias Bouchard, head of the Magnus Institute, stood framed against the wooden door. At first glance, he may have appeared casual but Jon knew that every move Elias made had an undercurrent of power and control. He wore creased brown trousers paired with matching jacket. Above a dark blue V-necked sweater, a white shirt collar peaked out, secured at the neck by a knotted, paisley tie. No signs of the day’s previous struggle rumpled his immaculate clothes. He stood, back straight, and in his left hand he held a glass of water with a pair of glasses hooked between his fingers.

“That’s better,” he said with an edge of satisfaction and took a step towards Jon.

Jon flinched away, pressing himself as far back in the chair as he could. The sudden movement overbalanced him and he began to tip backward. Elias’s hand shot out and grabbed the chair back before it could fall, the sleeve of his jacket brushed against Jon’s ear.

Jon tugged again at his bindings, trying to squirm away from the man now looming over him while Elias settled the chair firmly on the floor.

“Shhhh, Jon, calm down.” Elias’s hand moved from the chair to Jon’s shoulder. He squeezed in what may have been an attempt at comfort or what could have been a threat. Judging by how close the hand was to his neck and how firm his grip was, Jon really couldn’t be sure either way. Elias’s eyes met his and he cocked his head ever so slightly, and gave a small smile. Again, Jon was unable to discern intended comfort or threat.

Whether from the touch, the words, the eye contact, or simply paralyzed by blind fear Jon stilled.

Elias gave Jon’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing him and stepping back.  

“Elias, what is going on? Where am I and why have- “

“Would you like some water?” the older man cut him off, “You must be thirsty.”

The words had a genuine sounding kindness to them that made Jon pause. At the mention of thirst, he swallowed and coughed once. “Um… yes actually, I…” His eyes shifted from Elias to around the room before landing once again on his former boss. “What are you playing at? What is all… this?” he gave a halfhearted tug against the chair to punctuate his words.  

“I couldn’t have you running off again before we had a proper chance to chat.”

“I, uh…What?”  

“Would you have come willingly if I had asked nicely?”

“Probably not.”

“Precisely.”

Elias produced a knife from his pocket and opened it with a click making Jon’s heart skip a beat.  

“Do calm down,” Elias scolded as if addressing a particularly disobedient puppy. “You’ll need a free hand if you want to have a drink. I’m not going to feed you like an infant.”

The older man bent down and slid the sharp looking blade between Jon’s wrist and the chair it was held to. A quick motion sliced through the bunched tape and Jon’s left hand was free. Elias took a smooth step back before Jon had more than the briefest flicker of a thought to make a grab for the knife.  

His newly freed hand throbbed slightly as the blood returned to full circulation. Red marks on his wrist stood out in stark contrast to his pale flesh. He flexed his hand experimentally and shook out his arm once before bringing it up to scratch his face. It was more tender than he thought and he winced when he came across what seemed to be a sore on the side of his mouth.

“Chemical burn,” Elias responded to the unasked question, “chloroform has a rather low vapor pressure. An unfortunate side effect but nothing too severe, should heal in a couple of days.”  

The hand holding the knife had been lowered but he made no move to put it away. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Jon fixed Elias with an incredulous look but managed to bite back the words threatening to spill out of him. _Are we going to have a fucking problem!? You kidnapped me! I’m tied to a goddamn chair! Of course, we have a problem!_

“Any new problems at least.” Elias amended, reading the look on Jon’s face. He held up the glass of water, not quite offering it just yet. Not a drop had been spilled despite Elias having moved suddenly to catch his falling chair. Of course, Elias would be the kind of person who could carry a cup full to the brim down a flight of stairs without a drop ending up on the saucer.

Wincing as he passed his hand over his mouth again he managed to grind out a, “No, I suppose not.”

Anger was replacing his previous fear and the impulse to resist at every possible moment was strong. The picture Jon’s logical brain was piecing together however, implied that Elias didn’t want him dead. Not yet at least. Elias wanted something, whether as an agent of Beholding or as something else, only time would tell.  But that meant that _he had time_ to pick his moment later.

The older man fixed Jon with the full force of his gaze, scrutinizing him. A few moments later he stepped forward to hold the water within Jon’s reach.  

It was warm to the touch and lighter than he had expected. Plastic, not glass as he had originally assumed. That definitely lowered its value as any kind of weapon. Jon caught a faint hint of lemon and some kind of sweetness when he sniffed at the liquid. Was he trying to hide some kind of poison? Jon met Elias’s gaze over the glass and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“Really, Jon? Why would I poison you? If I wanted you dead you never would have woken up in the first place. You had a rather nasty coughing fit while you were unconscious. It seemed you could do with a bit of honey lemon water. No one is forcing you to drink it, dump it on the floor for all I care.”

The thought of throwing the drink in Elias’s face was quite appealing. Anything to rumple the older man’s proper appearance and bring him down a peg or two. It wouldn’t be worth it though. As glorious as the mental image was, truth be told, Jon’s throat was dry and sore. If he threw this away it was doubtful he would be getting more anytime soon.  

Jon raised the glass to his lips took an experimental sip. The warm drink was indeed soothing on his sore throat. He paused, waiting to see if his previous nausea or drowsiness returned. When none did he continued drinking.  

Jon nodded to Elias, “Are those my glasses?”

“They are. Would you like them?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Elias stepped forward once again, extending the glasses. It was a bit awkward with only one hand to work with but eventually Jon managed to get them settled on his face. The world came into focus, giving him access to a few more details. Elias’s crisp suit had dark blue pinstripes matching the sweater he wore. But more interestingly, a red mark stood out on Elias’s temple. It would seem Jon had managed to clip him with a wild punch or an elbow during the attack. Seeing that the older man hadn’t made it out completely unscathed caused Jon to smile slightly.

If Elias noticed the change in expression, he did not react.  

“Jon,” he began, “you are not a stupid man but you certainly have been behaving as one lately.”

“Says the psychotic killer.” Jon spat, glancing toward the knife.

“Rather messy work were I to guess, and not something undertaken lightly.” Elias said darkly, contemplating the knife in his hand briefly before returning his gaze to the Archivist. “And I’ll thank you not to interrupt me.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Elias but did not speak.

“As I said, you’re not a stupid man. However, bumbling your way through morning rush hour…” Elias made a tsk noise as he folded the knife with a practiced motion and returned it to his pocket. “You nearly walked right into a trap.”

“It would seem I did walk into a trap!” he used his free hand to gesture to the basement cell they currently inhabited.

“Though it may not look it, it was in fact, a rescue.”

Jon scoffed. “In that case I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I get myself out of here.” He began to work at the tape holding his right arm to the chair.  

“Jon,” Elias warned, “Don’t”

The command gave him pause, but a heartbeat later he resumed work.

“You will be released when we are finished here, but until then-“ Elias seized Jon’s wrist with surprising strength.“This is for your protection as much as mine, we are worried you are going to hurt yourself.”

Jon managed to twist free from Elias’s grip and land a punch to the side of his head. The older man stumbled back with a cry of surprise and pain. Jon scrabbled at the tape wrapped around his still bound wrist. It was too bunched from his earlier escape attempts to tear easily.

He had managed to work a small tear started along one edge when a hand caught him across the face, stunning him. His ears rang, his head swam, and he tasted blood. Then Elias had him by the throat and pulled him forward.

“Jonathan Sims, I am not an unreasonable man but you seem determined to test my limits” Every syllable was clipped, clear, and enunciated with precision. Only the strong pulse of the vein on his neck, of which Jon had a close-up view, betrayed anger in Elias’s calm demeanor.  

Blood pounding in his ears Jon grasped at the hand around his throat, desperately to pry free the squeezing fingers. No good, darkness was creeping at the edges of his vision, he had to try something else. Abandoning his previous plan of attack, he decided to go for the eyes Elias was fast, almost as if he had anticipated the move and with his free hand batted away Jon’s attack.

Releasing his throat, Elias grabbed Jon’s arm in both hands and slammed it back against the chair’s wooden arm sending a shock of pain up his elbow.  Through great gasps of air and a subsequent coughing fit, he was dimly aware of the older man reaching behind the chair to retrieve a roll of tape. Using one hand to press down on Jon’s now quite sore wrist he wrapped the tape around several times, much more tightly than before. After a quick look at the state of it, the process was repeated on his right arm.  

Jon’s hands throbbed as the bindings began cutting off circulation. He grunted and pulled at them to no avail before sagging back down in the chair, defeated.  

The commotion had mussed Elias more than a bit. His hair in every which way, jacket out of place, and tie askew. There had still been a bit of water in the glass and what was left had managed to spill down the knee of his trouser legs. The placement and quantity weren’t all that evocative of having pissed himself but Jon took what little comfort he could at his former boss’s expense.

The older man undid his top button and began pulling at the knot of his tie. Taking piece of paisley fabric off, he folded it and stowed it away in the jacket’s inside pocket. He brushed the residual water from his slacks then shed his jacket and folded it over one arm. He raked his hand through his hair and took a breath to compose himself.  

The end result was the most casually dressed he thinks he’s ever seen Elias. Tim had once made a joke that the Bouchard children must all born wearing perfectly tailored suits. Martin had chimed in with, “Bespoke Babies, by Bouchard” It had actually managed to illicit half a rare laugh out of Jon. That was back before Prentiss, when the archival team were all on speaking terms.

“Are you finished having your tantrum?” Elias sighed.

Jon glowered and shifted in his chair to a more comfortable position. Flexing his bound hands, he said nothing but reluctantly nodded once.

“Good.” He regarded the man seated before him for moment, seeming to look almost through him. “You need to be more careful. All it took was a few notes from Nikola Denikin’s steam organ to send you flying away in a panic.”

“How do you know about- “

“How do you think, Jon? Watching is _what we do._ You were reasonably well hidden from them before but after today, I fear they will be narrowing their focus on you. The archives are protected but I cannot let you return to them just yet. We need those statements.”

“What? I don’t- What-? The statements?” Jon was suddenly at a loss. “And what makes you think I would want to ever set foot in that cursed building again!?”

“You’re the Archivist,” Elias said without a trace of irony, “you belong there.  It is more a home to you than you have ever had or ever will.”

It was something he knew deep down but was unwilling to admit. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, marked by Beholding, belongs in the Archives. No matter what he does, how he tries to fight against it, he will always return to the Archive. That realization hit him like a physical weight and he blinked back tears.  

“As for the missing statements, they have a way of finding their way back to the Archivist even if was an Archivist who initially stole them. For some reason the statements we need the most are being prevented from returning to the Archive itself. Once you left, lo and behold, they started showing up at your door.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Once you stop fighting and accept your role you will be able to answer that for yourself.”

“Stop fighting…”

“Yes. At least with us, Jon. For nowLarger things are coming and we need you with us on this one.”

“The Unknowing?”

“The Unknowing.  Gertrude hid things away from us, things we need for the coming battles. Those statements give us the shape of what we’re up against.” Urgency crept into Elias’s voice as he spoke. “Pieces are moving sooner than we anticipated and it is crucial we see the whole playing field before the fight begins.”

“So, you need me to stay in hiding, waiting for breadcrumbs from my dead predecessor.” Jon leaned forward, tape digging into his arms, “My predecessor, whom _you murdered_ in cold blood.”

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. There are larger things at stake than the life of any one person,” his voice hardened, “even if they are the Archivist.” His eyes met with Jon’s and held them there.

“Would you like some time to think on this?”

The two men stayed that way for some time, eyes locked on one another. Jon held is gaze for as long as he was able but in the end, blinked first. Elias looked resigned as he pulled out the knife from his pocket.

The Archivist held his face impassive as the older man approached.  

The knife opened with a click.

Elias crouched, bringing himself to eye level with Jon. The Archivist closed his eyes and waited.

There was a sharp tug at his left leg, then his right.Jon opened his eyes to see Elias evaluating the much tighter tape restraining his arms. The older man seemed to contemplate this for a moment before folding away his knife and getting to work peeling up the end, unwinding the tape from around Jon’s arm. The last few loops had dug in deeply and he hissed out a noise of pain as they came away.  

Before he could pull his arm away completely from the chair, Elias placed a firm, but oddly gentle hand on the back of his hand. “Not yet.” He made quick work of the other arm before stepping back and nodding.

Jon’s hands ached and throbbed in time with his beating heart as circulation in his fingers was restored. His left wrist was especially tender and he took turns massaging one then the other.  

“Am I free to go?”

“Yes. Of course, you are still wanted by the police so I would advise against returning to your flat. I did however, take the liberty and you will find some clothes and cash upstairs”

The thought of Elias rummaging around his flat was not a pleasant one. Especially after the man had _framed him for murder_.  

“Detective Tonnor drew her own conclusion on the matter. I never suggested you were the culprit.”

_How did he-?_

“You’re very easy to read, Jon. Don’t worry, we’ll work on that when you get back.”

Jon stood to meet Elias’s gaze. “’When I get back?’ How long do you suppose that will be?”

“That depends on how many statements need to find their way back to you. We’ll be in touch.”

“If I can’t go home and I can’t go back to the Magnus Institute, where am I supposed to go?”

“Back to Georgina Barker’s, of course. Do clean yourself up a bit before you go, you know how she worries. Lucky for you it is cold enough for long sleeved shirts.” He said, glancing down and the angry marks on Jon’s wrists.  

The Archivist’s hands balled into fists and he imagined punching the smug expression off Elias Bouchard’s face. He forced it down and made himself open his hands.

Elias raised his eyebrows and seemed genuinely pleased. It was unsettling.

“I don’t want to put her in danger. Is there any way to guarantee her safety?”

“Almost certainly not. No one is ever safe, especially with what is coming. What I can tell you is that she is in no more danger than any other person in the city. Provided you don’t lead them directly to her door.

“Keep an eye out, you’re better at spotting these kinds of things than you know. I would never have hired you otherwise. This won’t be the first time they try to flush you out. They want you to act without thinking. Don’t let them dictate your behavior. You were lucky I got to you before they did.”

Jon scoffed and continued rubbing his wrist, “Yeah, lucky.”

“You have no idea how lucky.” Elias fixed Jon with an intense stare. “I did what I had to do quickly and quietly. If you had managed to cause a scene the both of us, along with anyone else who’s attention you called, would be off somewhere having our flesh peeled away with excruciating slowness all while they render the fat from our still living bodies. Believe me, they can extend that process for _months_. Every moment an agony, unable to move, unable to sleep, unable to scream.”

That stopped Jon cold. The two men stood in uncomfortable silence.

“Do keep an eye on cats.” Elias suddenly remarked. “They don’t react favorably to aspects of the Stranger. Think of them as an… early warning signal.”

“Okay…?” Jon responded, off balance as the tension bled away. “Are there any lying in wait nearby? Aspects, not cats.”

“Not here, they seem to be focusing on the south side for now. They will probably disperse soon enough, they typically don’t have the patience for a drawn-out hunt.”

“Comforting.” Jon remarked dryly.

“We take what little comfort where we can.” Elias shifted his jacket to his other arm before opening the door to the small room and walking out. “I need to get back to the Institute. You’ll see yourself out?”

“Fine, sure.”

Elias nodded, turned, and walked away. As he climbed the stairs. Jon could swear he saw a hint of something metallic tucked in the waistband at the small of the other man’s back.

The Archivist, and that’s what he is no matter how he struggles against it, stretched and turned to survey the room now that he’d been freed from that damn chair. His limbs ached from sitting on its hard surface for who knows how long.  

Off to the side of the wooden chair, he spotted his coat sitting atop what appeared to be a large roll of industrial garbage bags. He tried not to think too hard about it as he retrieved his coat. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards overhead and the sound of a door opening then closing drifted down from above. Elias had left. Time to retrieve whatever clothes and money are waiting for him upstairs before doing the same.  

As his hand hovered over the switch to the light for that small room, Jon remembered Martin describing how he found the previous Archivist. A small square room, underground, in a wooden chair, covered in dust, three gunshots to the chest. He suppressed a shudder. It would seem Gertrude Robinson’s chat with Elias Bouchard ended differently than his own.  

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, flipped the switch and turned to leave. He had work to do.

 


End file.
